Page 74 of What We Become

“You sure about this?” Micah asks as we reach the back door, his hand hovering at my elbow like a spotter at a gymnastics event.

“I’m sure.”

“Because if you’re dizzy, or your breathing⁠—”

“Micah. I’m getting in a hot tub, not running an ultramarathon. My lungs can handle bubbles.”

He gives me a look that says I love you and I’m worried and I know you’re going to do it anyway, so I’m just going to stand here being supportive and devastatingly handsome about it. That look should be illegal.

I tighten the sash on the Egyptian cotton robe Milo bought me—the one with the thread count that allegedly has its own zip code—and peer through the glass.

The water’s been at temperature for hours. The sun’s behind the mountains now, and the lights outside have come on.

“You know, the only reason Holden and Knox agreed to this is because there are security cameras all over the property,” Micah says as we step outside.

“Because otherwise they’d both be lurking in the dark with guns and bad attitudes.”

“Holden would say it’s called overwatch.”

“Knox would say nothing. He’d just loom.”

Micah smiles and offers me his arm. Cold mountain air brushes my legs as we follow the lit path around to the woodshed.

Steam drifts into view first, rising in soft white sheets and carrying the smell of cedar and the promise of warmth.

Then we round the corner.

The hot tub sits on a wooden platform behind the shed, tucked under a pergola with retractable sides. All four sides are open now, and the roof is strung with fairy lights. Milo found them in a storage area and spent forty-five minutes hanging them while Knox stood below passing him nails with unending patience.

The result is annoyingly beautiful. Warm light, steam curling, the valley stretched out beyond the railing like someone hung a painting there just for us.

And in the tub: four of my men.

Knox takes up roughly a third of the available real estate, arms stretched along the rim, head tipped back, eyes closed. He looks like a boulder someone dropped into a hot spring—immovable, eternal, completely unconcerned with the water displacement crisis he’s causing.

Holden is across from him, sitting upright because even relaxation is a posture he approaches with discipline. Eli is to Holden’s left, chin just above the waterline, blond hair wet and pushed back, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks.

And Milo is doing something that can only be described as holding court from the far corner, arms draped wide.

Milo spots us first, obviously.

“There she is,” he announces, like I’m the headline act at a very niche festival. “Our convalescent queen. Stop everything. The robe has entered the chat.”

Three more heads turn.

It shouldn’t do anything to me by now, the way all of their attention lands at once. It should feel familiar. Manageable.

Instead, it hits low and hot, a pulse under my skin.

Knox opens his eyes fully and sits forward. Eli’s mouth softens. Holden’s gaze tracks from my face to the belt of the robe and back again, quick and cool and absolutely not cool at all. Milo grins like he personally invented desire and is waiting for applause.

“I feel judged,” I say.

“You should feel admired,” Milo corrects.

Micah’s hand settles at the small of my back as we make our way down the steps under the pergola. Slow enough that nobody can accuse him of not taking the doctor seriously, possessive enough that it still makes my stomach flip.

The fairy lights reflect off the water in fractured gold. Somebody—Milo, almost certainly—set a tray on a side table with drinks, a plate of cut fruit, and a folded stack of towels arranged with obscene neatness. The whole thing looks like a luxury retreat for the emotionally unstable.